


Never Fair

by grey



Category: Quantum Leap
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 21:15:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grey/pseuds/grey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam/Al. Sam Beckett's job is never fair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Fair

**Never Fair**  
Chicago, Illinois  
September 17, 1979

"Dad: The world isn't fair, Calvin.  
Calvin: I know, but why isn't it ever unfair in my favor?"  
Bill Watterson, _The Essential Calvin and Hobbes_

\---

Sam Beckett dreamed. He was curled beneath the blankets of someone else's bed, close beside the sprawled-out form of someone else's lover, surrounded by the sound of the rain on the roofs of someone else's time. In his dream, though, the rain belonged to him: familiar, beloved Elk Ridge rain, falling on the roof of his family's barn. He lay there, nestled in the dry hay, comforted by the soft sounds. The wind stirred the corn outside, whispering through the rows, and his father's cows shuffled quietly in their stalls. Home.

After a time, the rain grew louder. The dream changed, until it was no longer Sam's: suddenly he was smaller, and older, nestled in his berth on the _USS Bonhomme Richard_. The prickly feel of the hay beneath him became his scratchy wool blanket, pulled tight around his shoulders, and the sound of the rain was the ship's engines, a steady rumble which conspired with the gentle rocking of the sea to send him to sleep. He dreamed -- a dream within a dream -- of the orphanage, cold and lonely; of flight and of fire; and finally of lust, nameless and desperate.

He had no home.

Sam woke suddenly, gasping. He was sweaty and hot, tangled in the blankets, and he had an erection so great that it pained him. He groaned, stumbling out of bed, barely managing not to wake his lover. No, _Ben Hoffman's_ bed, and Ben Hoffman's lover, Mike. Sam was just borrowing both, for as long as Ben needed him.

Sam managed to get to the bathroom and close the door before taking himself in hand, moaning with need. Al's dreams _always_ did this to him. It didn't even matter what they were about; in the end, they were always about the same thing. Sometimes Sam wished they'd never simo-leaped. Wouldn't he rather have gone without these particular neurons and mesons? Then pleasure filled him, and he threw his head back and writhed against the door, his hand busy between his legs, his best friend's name on his lips.

Afterward, he wiped off the bathroom floor and hopped in the shower, feeling more than a little guilty. It wasn't his fault -- hell, they weren't even his thoughts, technically -- but then, it wasn't really Al's fault either. Al was just that way; his heart ran hot, like a little furnace, always hungry for flying, for fighting, for fucking. _He'd_ never have been guilty over what Sam had just done. In fact, he'd probably brag about it all day, especially so soon after last night.

Then again, considering Al's reaction _to_ last night, maybe not.

It had been the best night in a long time. Sam had Leapt in, Al had told him why he was there, and then Mike had come home from the store with a bottle of good Scotch and a copy of the TV Guide. They'd put on some movie, a light comedy that neither of them had paid much attention to once they were snuggled together on the couch. At first, Sam had been more than a little uncomfortable; he didn't like sleeping with people on the leaps. It felt too much like betrayal, though his fractured memory couldn't quite conjure up the image of the person he might be betraying. But Mike was gentle, and warm, and Sam was so damn lonely... and the Scotch _was_ very good.

Al had stared, and then glared, then barked at him, and then yelled at him, but somehow Sam hadn't been able to stop. He'd needed to be touched, more than Al could know, and as much as Sam had wanted him to, Al couldn't help him. Al would never touch Sam like that, even if Al _could_ touch him. So Sam had responded to Mike's touch, to his kind words and eager lips, and Al had left, opening and closing the Imaging Chamber door with violent movements, fingers on the handlink shaking with anger.

Sam hadn't meant to hurt him. He hadn't thought it _would_ hurt him, for one thing; hadn't Al gotten over his problem with gays, back when Sam had leapt into that Navy college? He hadn't shown any signs of intolerance since then... Sam sighed. Maybe not. Maybe it was too much to expect for Al to give up years of training, years of indoctrination and mistrust, no matter how much it mattered to Sam.

Or maybe the problem was with _Sam_ and not with Mike.

Sam sighed again, shifting his feet against the tile, letting the warm water run over his back. As usual, Sam had trouble remembering the things that had happened before the leaps, but he was pretty sure he'd slept with men before: there was what's-his-name at MIT, with the funny hair and the killer smile, and then somebody else at the Starbright project, whom Sam mostly remembered by how circumspect they'd had to be. Al was different, though. Before last night, he couldn't remember thinking of Al in a sexual way, at least not consciously. But then Mike had touched him, had stroked him and urged him with patient, loving hands, and he _had_ thought of Al like that. Repeatedly. Especially at the end, his thighs snugged tight around Mike's torso, gasping as Mike pressed against him, into him, deep and hard.

God, how he'd wanted it to be Al.

Sam padded back over to the bed, toweling off as he went, deep in thought. When Al came back, they could talk. Through all the leaps, no matter what had happened, they'd always been able to talk. Al _had_ to understand... but if he wouldn't, Sam would lie, would deny his feelings, would even beg. He just couldn't make it alone.

As he was lifting the blankets, a small sound made him turn. Outside on the balcony was a splash of color: Al, in his usual finery, a red suit piped with silver. He saw Sam -- saw _all_ of him, because Sam was still quite naked -- but before Sam could take more than a single step toward him, he struck a key on the handlink and vanished.

So much for talking. Sam yanked the covers back and slid into bed beside his erstwhile lover, but the tightness of his jaw kept him up most of the night.

\---

The next morning, Mike got up first. Sam curled in on himself and pretended not to notice, hoping for just a little more sleep. He dozed lightly, half in and half out of slumber, lulled by the sound of the shower running in the bathroom. Then Mike emerged again.

"Hey, you want to go out to breakfast?"

"C'mon, it's not until three..." Sam groaned.

"What isn't?"

Sam very nearly said "the robbery", but caught himself just in time. Mike wouldn't know about that; for him, it hadn't happened yet, and hopefully never would. Sam rolled over and mumbled something unintelligible, and Mike laughed, leaning over to kiss his forehead.

"Come on, Ben. If we hurry, we can get cinnamon rolls."

Sam showered and dressed while Mike flipped through the paper, and then the two of them walked up the still-steaming streets to the bakery, dodging puddles along the way. Sam watched Mike out of the corner of his eye, admiring his tall, lanky frame and easy smile. He was nothing like Al... well, maybe there was a resemblance in the lines around the eyes, evidence of a long and rich life. Sam wondered what it was about Mike that had made him think of Al, but he could only come to the conclusion that his subconscious knew more than it was telling him.

The bakery was small and neat, and a lot warmer than the air outside. Their cinnamon rolls were just as warm, and aromatic too. The smell drove Sam crazy all the way back to the shop below the apartment. "Hoffman's Watches" was written across the glass door in neat printing, but Mike hardly looked at it before opening the door and pulling the security screen aside. The bell above the door tinkled madly. Inside, the store was small but cozy. Most of the floor space was taken up by glass-fronted display cases, which were currently empty. A counter ran almost the entire length of the room, with a rotary phone and a cash register in the center, and behind that was a thin workbench. Above it on the wall was a long mirror and a pegboard hung with a dizzying array of tools. Apparently, Ben was the cluttered type. Practically the only empty space was in the middle, taken up by a partially-assembled watch which had been carefully nestled on a fuzzy blue towel.

Sam sat behind the counter and ate while Mike opened up the shop, glancing back at his reflection in the mirror. Ben Hoffman was older than Sam, a solid, stocky man with a touch of grey at his temples. Sam had gotten good at reading people; in his suit and tie, Ben struck him as being a bit serious and grave, but not in a bad way.

"Aren't you going to help with this?" Mike asked. He was setting out expensive-looking watches from a box, three to each case. Sam blanched, looking away from the mirror. It might be "his" store, but he had no clue as to how to run it.

"I, uh, thought I'd leave it to you this morning," he tried.

"Too sexy to work, huh?"

"I thought that was the arrangement," Sam said drily. Mike laughed.

"All right, I'll set up today if you close the store tonight."

"Actually, I was thinking we could close a little early?"

"We can't, remember? Aren't you the one who said we had to drum up sales if we're gonna pay the rent this month?"

Sam sighed. In the original history, Mike had been killed when the store was robbed, just after three o'clock.

"You sure? We could watch another movie..." Sam let his voice drop, smiling suggestively.

"Now _there's_ an idea... but we can do it _after_ we close." Mike noticed Sam's frown, then added, "It's just one day, hon. What if somebody comes by when we're not here?"

"Yeah, you're right," Sam said finally.

"I'm gonna go over to Fleishman's and see if he's got any extra work for us," Mike said. "Hold down the fort, OK?"

As it turned out, the fort wasn't very difficult to hold. Maybe this had been a busy neighborhood once, when Ben and Mike had first opened the store, but it wasn't one now. Sam spent most of the morning staring out into the intermittent rain. He had to wonder whether keeping Mike from getting shot would be enough. This pair seemed destined to lose their store and apartment, and from Sam's point of view, there didn't seem to be a damn thing he could do about it.

Mike came back around noon, with a couple of turkey sandwiches and a bag of broken watch bands and necklaces from Fleishman's. The two of them sat together at the workbench and tinkered with them for an hour or two; Sam turned out to be well-suited to the work, and matched Mike repair for repair, though he was careful to choose the ones which looked straightforward.

"You know, I've been thinking... maybe we ought to branch out into something else," Sam suggested, reaching for the last broken necklace.

"You're kidding! This, from 'my father was a watchmaker, my _zayde_ was a watchmaker' Hoffman? Bad enough you like men, worse that I'm not even Jewish, but to get rid of the store... your family will kill you! Besides, this place is your life!"

Sam winced. "Well, we have to face facts... and the fact is, we're not going to be able to keep the store forever, not like this. Maybe we ought to think of something else we can do with the place, before we're forced to leave."

"Ben..." Mike reached over and squeezed Sam's hand, rubbing his thumb against the palm soothingly. It was such a natural gesture, so well-loved and so simple, that Sam was certain that Mike had done it a thousand times over the years. Suddenly, Sam could feel Ben Hoffman very clearly, as if some part of him had stayed behind in Sam.

"We _could_ do something else," Sam said, speaking the words for another. "I love watches, always have... but I love you, too. As long as you're with me, it doesn't matter."

"Ah, Ben, you're such a sap." Mike threw an arm around his shoulder, grinning. "So then, what are we going to do?"

Sam sighed, gazing into the mirror in front of them. What could a couple of watchmakers do to make money in 1979?

"Computers, Sam. If they get started now, they can get in on the ground floor in a couple'a years," said a voice at his shoulder. Sam whirled, grinning joyfully at his friend.

"No, no, don't look at me, look at _him_!" Al cried, waving his purple-clad arm in an extravagant gesture of negation. "Quick, tell him!"

Sam turned toward Mike, who was looking at him with concern. "How about... electronics? Maybe even computers?"

"What!? That's nuts, neither of us knows anything about that!"

Sam shrugged. "Hey, neither does anybody else, right? But I've got a feeling it's gonna really take off. We can study it while we're running the store."

"You're crazy, love," Mike grinned. "But it's not a bad idea, I guess. Circuits are little, like watches are, and maybe we can use some of the same tools..." he trailed off, thinking.

"Well, _I_ think it's a start," Sam said. He glanced up at Al, who poked at the handlink briefly before looking up at him.

"No good, Sam. This still says that Mike gets shot to death at three-fifteen. After that, Ben just sort of drifts through life. You gotta save Mike before history will change."

Sam frowned. "What time is it?"

Mike jerked his thumb at the clock, half-buried amongst the tools on the wall. Five after three. There wasn't much time left in which to prevent a robbery, but maybe if Mike wasn't in the shop when it happened...

"I'll worry about the electronics thing, OK?" Sam suggested. "You'd better run all this back to Fleishman's store, or we're not going to make the rent!"

"I'll be back soon," Mike said, and gave him a kiss that Sam couldn't help but respond to. When he finally turned away, Sam smiled, watching fondly as he dashed out the door.

Then he turned and saw Al, standing rigid against the wall. He was very carefully not looking at Sam, with his hands clenched tight at his sides.

"Oh, Al..."

"I gotta go," Al said abruptly, pulling the handlink from his pocket. "I need to check Ziggy's, uh, floppy mega-RAM or somethin'." He opened the Imaging Chamber door and stepped through it, so quickly that he'd nearly input the door-close sequence before Sam caught him.

"Al, don't you go!"

Al looked up, shame-faced, and Sam felt badly for him; it seemed like Sam was always doing this, always hurting him without meaning to. The anger he'd felt last night was gone, replaced by a weary sort of acceptance. He _loved_ Al, loved him far beyond the sexual, and he simply couldn't stand here and make demands of him. Not even if the alternative meant letting him go, maybe even forever.

Al seemed to sense the change in Sam's mood, as always, and stepped forward with a wary smile, as if testing the waters. The door closed behind him.

"Hi, Sam. You doin' all right?"

Sam smiled back. "I'm OK, Al. I, uh, missed you earlier today."

"Yeah, well... I thought maybe you two needed some time alone, y'know?" The first part was delivered glibly, but there was a note of something else in the second, like nerves, or anger, or even bitterness. Sam frowned.

"Look, Al. I know you're upset, but it wasn't like that, OK? I was just lonely, that's all. I just... needed to be touched."

Al snorted. "You sure as hell did," he muttered, his voice a low growl of displeasure. "Looked to me like you were ready to let that queer bastard 'touch' you straight through the goddamn sofa."

"Al!" Sam blushed, taking a step back in embarrassment.

Al took an equal step forward, ranting now, jabbing his cigar in Sam's direction with each damning phrase. "You wanted him, didn't you? You were beggin' for it! You were gonna let him do ya -- let him _fuck_ ya -- right there on the couch! Bingo, bango, bend over an' take it up the--"

"Al, _shut up_!"

Al opened his mouth as if to continue, then shut it again, glaring at Sam.

"Why, Al?" Sam asked sadly. "I thought you were over this."

"_What_?"

"I -- when I leaped into the kid at that Naval college, after we'd saved him, you said you'd changed your mind. You said you were _wrong_, Al."

Al blinked. "Dammit, Sam, that's not what I'm talkin' about!"

"It's not?"

"No! I'm talkin' about _you_ an' _him_ on the _couch_ last _night_, not some stupid nozzle in some stupid college forty stupid _years_ ago!" Al folded his arms and hunched his shoulders, suddenly on the defensive.

"Al, what do you mean?" Sam gentled his tone very carefully; Al only got like that when something was really bothering him.

Al spoke, his eyes fixed on the floor about a foot in front of Sam's shoes. "I meant it when I said I was wrong about gays, Sam. I really did, but I just can't stand it. I can't stand bein' there, seein' you with him like that, knowin' I can't even help you if he's not good to you. Goddammit, it ain't right!"

He began to pace, still holding himself tightly, his cigar twitching back and forth in his fingers like a metronome. "It ain't right," he muttered, his voice little more than a guttural growl, deep and low. "It's not _right_ for him to hold you, to touch you, to -- to do _any_ of those things t'you! It. Ain't. Right, dammit! It shoulda been--" He broke off suddenly, trembling, looking pointedly away from Sam. To anyone else, he would have seemed the very picture of sullen anger, but as usual, Sam knew better.

Sam had heard the part he hadn't been willing to say aloud.

"Al," Sam started, reaching for him, wishing for the millionth time that they could touch. Al didn't react, still wrapped up in himself. "Look at me. _Please_, Al."

Al turned, his arms uncurling slowly. He seemed reluctant to meet Sam's eyes. When he finally did, Sam smiled at him, unable to hide his happiness and relief. "You're right, Al. It was wrong. It should have been _you_."

"What?" Al's voice was barely more than a whisper.

"It should've been you, Al." Sam swallowed hard. "I wanted it to be you."

The dawning realization in Al's eyes was worth every instant of every day Sam Beckett had spent Leaping. Al reached for him, hesitant, his mouth forming the shape of Sam's name--

\--and the bell above the door tinkled loudly.

Sam turned, senses on alert, even as Al yelled, "Sam! Three-fifteen!" over the sudden squeal of the handlink. The man coming through the door had just pulled a ski-mask over his head. Before Sam could move, he was halfway through the room, the revolver in his hand pointed at Sam's chest.

"This is a stick-up! Get your hands up!"

Sam obeyed slowly, looking for Al out of the corner of his eye.

"Alright, okay, just take it easy, Sam. Ziggy says Ben doesn't get shot. Just give him everything outta the register, and we'll get you outta this, OK?"

"I'll give you the money," Sam said quietly, nodding toward the cash register on the counter. "You can take it, just don't shoot."

The robber nodded, gesturing nervously with his gun. "Get it out now! All of it. Get those watches out, too!"

Sam walked to the counter and carefully popped the register open, but as he began to stack the cash beside it, the handlink squealed again.

It happened all at once: Sam's head jerked up, the robber reacted with a shout, and the bell above the door jingled one last time, as Mike unknowingly walked inside. Sam was already moving, even as Al cried out, "Sam, you gotta stop him! This is when Mike gets shot!"

Finding himself suddenly trapped between two men, the robber wheeled toward the freedom of the door, brandishing the gun. Mike stumbled, yelling, even as Sam lunged forward, grabbing the robber's arm and pulling it toward him. Pulling the _gun_ toward him. It went off, the sound tremendously loud in the small space, and Sam fell back with a cry. The robber scrambled over Mike and out the door, forgetting the money in his haste.

"Sam! Sam!" Al cried, dropping to his knees beside his friend. Sam groaned, curling in on himself, feeling suddenly cold and numb. Then Mike was there, gripping his shoulders, heedless of the blood that came away on his hand. "Ben! Oh, Ben, we've gotta get you to the hospital," he said, tears in his eyes as he leaned close, touching his forehead to Sam's.

Then the pain hit, turning Sam's left arm into a blaze of agony, and Sam groaned, gritting his teeth, rolling helplessly onto his uninjured side. "Sam, it's not too bad, you're OK," Al babbled, trying his best to be of use. "The bullet's in your arm, so Ben'll be in the hospital for a couple days, an' after that it'll be fine, you'll be fine... you did it, kid, you saved Mike! Get ready to leap!"

But Sam did not leap then, nor on the gurney in the ambulance, nor when they finally put him under at the hospital so they could dig the bullet out of his arm.

\---

Sam woke early the next morning, feeling groggy and cold and wounded. He couldn't figure it out; he almost always leaped as soon as he was done with his task. He'd been shot before, and had occasionally had to put up with an injury for an entire leap, but to be _left_ here, alone, even after he'd saved a man's life? It didn't seem fair... not that this gig was _ever_ fair.

Then he caught sight of a flash of purple, and smiled. _Well, maybe I'm not entirely alone_, he thought to himself.

"Hi, Al."

"Hey, Sam. You OK?" Al's face was ashen with worry, and his suit -- expensive, plum-colored linen lined with what looked like even pricier black silk -- was rumpled as though he'd slept in it. Sam didn't doubt that he had, curled up on the floor of the Imaging Chamber.

"I'm OK, I think," Sam said, testing his left arm carefully. His upper arm and shoulder were wrapped in gauze, and the doctors had trussed his forearm against his chest in a sling. He reached out and stretched it to its limit, which was only about three inches or so. It hurt to move it even that much, so he lay back in the hospital bed, letting the arm rest upon his chest.

"The bullet didn't break the humerus, right?"

"This is no time for jokes, Sam," Al said, deadpan. Sam glared at him. "Yeah, OK, you're right, it didn't. You got lucky, that arm oughtta be good as new in a few weeks. 'Course, _you_ should be outta here by now... Ziggy doesn't know why you're still here."

Sam smiled at him. "Maybe it's because you were worried about me."

Al harrumphed, and examined the handlink carefully, pretending as though he were reading it. "They're, uh, gonna make it, Mike and Ben. They start a little computer company, just a two-person kinda deal. It's not much, but they keep the store and the apartment."

"That's good to hear, Al. You know, about what we were talking about before..." Sam began.

"S'nothin', kid," Al said, affecting a light tone which entirely failed to be convincing.

"I think it _was_ something, Al." Sam frowned. "It matters to me... and I think it matters to you, too."

Al shuffled his feet. "Well, sure -- y'know, a little, not a _lot_, but--"

"C'mon, Al! You were ready to _kill_ Mike just for kissing me! That's not just 'a little'!"

"Sam, I'm Italian! I was ready to kill the caterer at my fourth -- no, third wedding because he asked Ruthie if she wanted 'dessert' before or after the dancing!"

"_Al_," Sam growled, his frustration drawing out the word.

Al took a great breath, and let it out slowly, as if he'd been holding it for a long time. Maybe years. _Wonder if I'll ever know how long?_ Sam thought distractedly, watching as Al gathered his will.

"It keeps me up at night," Al finally admitted, all in a rush. "I have dreams about you."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "What _kind_ of dreams?" he teased. He'd never known Al to miss an opening like that, not in twenty years of friendship.

"Very serious, Sam, very serious indeed," Al purred, sidling closer, right up beside the bed.

"Tell me about your dreams, Al," Sam whispered, hardly daring to breathe.

Al knelt, tucking the handlink into his jacket as he went. "Ah, Sammy, I dunno where to start... just that you're _always_ there." He met Sam's eyes, smiled, and then placed his hand carefully over Sam's, just in the place where it would have been if they could really, truly touch. In all the years they'd been leaping together, Al had never done that before. Sure, he'd reached out -- with his voice, with his eyes, even grabbed for Sam once or twice, as if by sheer stubborn-mindedness he could somehow catch him -- but he had never once tried to touch Sam like that, just as though he were real.

There was no miracle. Where Al's hand was, was nothing at all. There was not even the slightest suggestion of touch, no matter how much the hairs on the back of Sam's hand seemed to prickle and tingle, as if they, too, were hoping against hope.

It was all for nothing, and yet Sam had never felt anything like it in his life, in _all_ of his lives.

"I love you, Al." Sam moved his hand so that the palm was face-up, letting Al's warm eyes distract him so he wouldn't look down, wouldn't see what the movement did to a hand that wasn't there. Al sighed softly, shifting where he knelt, leaning closer. "Oh, kid, please don't say it. I'm no good at love, you know that..."

"I don't care," Sam said. "I love you, Al. Good or not, I love you."

Al let his breath out in a great rush, his head dropping as though Sam had hit him. "I can't even touch you, Sam. I can't hold you, can't kiss you, can't make love to you even if I knew that's what you wanted, and I can't --" His voice broke. "Oh God, _I can't even say it_, Sam. What the hell do I have to give a man like you?"

"Just yourself, Al. It's all I've ever asked of you, all I will ever ask of you, I swear. If you can't say it, that's OK, it's OK, just... be with me, Al. Please don't leave me."

Al looked up, his gaze fierce. "I will never leave you, Sam. Never."

Sam nodded. "I know." He smiled. "I love you too, Al."

Al laughed, then, just as Sam had known he would, a rude snort of amusement. Then he wiped his hand over his face in a weary gesture of surrender, still chuckling quietly. "Goddammit, kid! 'oh, I'm not askin' for anything', just everything you've got! Typical, just typical... that's just like a Beckett, y'know?"

"And you're a Calavicci... who has always given me everything he had, everything I ever needed, no matter the cost. Don't you see, Al? You've already given me so much, just as you are. There's only one thing left, and I think..." Sam looked down at his hand, where the illusion of Al's touch had so recently been. "I think you just gave it to me."

For a long moment, Al said nothing. Then he nodded, and stood, and took out the handlink, squinting at it as he punched the buttons. Sam winced, afraid that he was about to see the last of Al: through the Imaging Chamber door and never to come back.

"Al?" he asked nervously.

"Shh, gimme a second. If the Navy ever gets hold of this transcript, they'll hang my ass right out to dry. I gotta convince Ziggy to 'lose' some time for us, OK?"

"Lose some--"

The handlink suddenly lit up in a great panoply of color. It made Sam think of the Fourth of July in a Bakelite jewelry factory, and reflected off Al's silver lapel pin in a million different pastel shades.

Al grinned. "That'll do it. Hey, look, I think she's happy for us!"

Sam smiled back. "Does that mean you're happy, too?" he asked, unable to keep a touch of worry out of his voice.

As an answer, Al gave him a look that set his heart racing, warm and welcoming and wonderful. Without breaking eye contact, Al stuffed the handlink in his jacket pocket with his left hand, even as his right began to undo the buttons, deftly tugging each one through the buttonholes in the heavy fabric.

"Ask me again in about an hour, Sammy."

Sam smiled, reaching for his friend, for the man he loved. Then, because Sam Beckett's job is never done, nor ever fair, he leaped.


End file.
